


The Grace of Sinners (is a Work in Progress)

by BarefootGirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU after Rock and a Hard Place, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarefootGirl/pseuds/BarefootGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam knows about Ezekiel. Dean is trying to deal with fucking up, yet again.  Castiel has his shit together better than either Winchester brother, but even he can't fix this.  </p>
<p>AU after "Rock and a Hard Place."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>THIS FIC HAS NOT BEEN ABANDONED.  REPEAT: THIS FIC HAS <b>NOT</b> BEEN ABANDONED.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> AU after "Rock and a Hard Place." I don't even remember how this fic started, only that it was inevitable Sam was going to find out about Ezekiel, and in time-honored Sammy tradition I could see him doing a walk-off, but the space Dean was in, he might get there first, and Castiel is figuring his shit out faster than either Winchester brother because hey Not-A-Dummy, and oh hey look I can tie up a few floating plot-threads here and here, and.... 
> 
> ...and at some point I looked up and realized that it was probably going to hit 10k before I was done, and it was all booze and whimpering after that. If you are moved to leave kudos, my battered soul would so appreciate it.
> 
> (I'll write the rest regardless, because it I don't it will BE IN MY HEAD FOREVER, but kudos are like chocolate without the calories)

The air in the Bunker hadn’t gotten colder, but there was a definite frost in the air.

“No.”

“Sammy…”

“No, Dean.  I just…I can’t right now.”  His brother ran a hand through his hair, shoving it off his face even as he turned to pace away, and then came stalking back.    “I know you thought you were doing the right thing, I _get_ that, okay?  But you took away my choice, you took away my right to choose, and I’m… I can’t even say I’m pissed because I’m so far past that I can’t even see it in the rear view mirror and if I stay here I’m going to say something I can’t take back.  Okay?”

It was sad, how happy the pissed off, _hurt_ expression on Sam’s face made him.  That was a hundred percent Sammy, no angel involved.  “Okay.  But… you stay.  I um… I’ll go.”

“Dean…” 

“No, I get it.  I fucked up.”  He’d known he was fucking up from the start, a second after the angel slipped into Sam, but he hadn’t known how to get out of it, not without risking Sam’s life. But his brother was alone in his body now, and still healthy.  And he needed to stay that way.

Seeing Sam nod once, a brusque acknowledgment, made something ease in his chest.  Only a little, though.  The knotted mess still made it hard to breathe.

He went into his room, and packed a bag.   Sam didn’t come after him, didn’t hang in the doorway, watching.  Kevin had taken off for the hills – or some far-off room deep in the bunker – the moment the yelling had started, like he was afraid edged weapons were going to come out.

Dean could have told him there was no need.  Fists and words, that was all they’d ever needed.

Jeans, a couple of shirts, underwear and socks, pair of boots, weapons.  After a lifetime of packing on a moment’s notice, it was easy to do.

Too easy.

The last thing was the photo on his nightstand.  He picked it up, the edges soft as cloth by years from handling.  His mother’s eyes looked back at him, her smile, her arms around the young boy he’d been, once…

He closed his eyes, then turned and walked out of the room.

 

Dean made his way through the bunker, quietly saying goodby, then dropped his duffle by the car and pulled out his cell phone, dialing a number he’d memorized not too long ago.  “Cas.”

“Dean?”

“Hey.”  His voice was rough, too rough, and he coughed to try and clear it.  “I just…wanted to tell you it’s okay to come home now.”  He paused.  “If you want.”

“I…yes.  Dean.  Yes, I want to come home.”

“Good.” 

There was a silence, and then he repeated, “That’s good, Cas.  Just…take a bus and call Sammy, he’ll meet you there.”

“Dean?”

Damn angel.  His voice had gone from surprised to pleased to suspicious like he could still see Dean’s soul.  “Be careful,” he said, and ended the call before Cas could ask questions he couldn’t answer, before he said something he couldn’t walk back from.

After a moment’s hesitation, he opened Baby’s side door, and slid the phone into the glove compartment.

“Be good to them,” he told the car, then picked up his duffle, and started walking.

 

#

 

After a couple of hours, Sam closed the book he’d been trying to read, and let out a sigh that seemed to come all the way from the soles of his feet.

“You’re an ass,” he said, even though his brother was god knows where and not able to hear him.  “And I know why you did it, I swear, Dean, I do.  And…”  This was the hard part, the part he needed to practice.  “And thank you.  Because you’re right.  Being alive is better than being dead.  No matter where I’m going.”

He was pretty sure he’d get heaven’s gate, when he passed, but…. The memories had gotten fuzzy over time, but being in heaven had felt a lot like watching reruns one time too many.  Maybe it worked better if you weren’t aware, if you could just lose yourself in the moment and the memory, but Winchesters never did it the easy way.

And he’d remember he left Dean behind.  Somehow, he knew, he’d always remember that.  Which would be okay if he’d left his brother with a wife and kids, or… or an angel to watch his back.  But alone?  Charlie was off in Oz, Cas… was decommissioned, for lack of a better term, and Kevin was burnt out. Everyone else was…. Dead.

“Yeah, I get it.  Death not a thing you’re not going to fight, for anyone.  And the fact that we actually _know_ the guy is never not going to weird me out.”

He hauled himself out of the chair, determined to go hunt his brother down and sit on him, if need be, until they talked this shit out.  And maybe lay down some ground rules that they could ignore, next time around.

 

“Dean?”

The Impala was still parked in its spot in the garage, but his brother hadn’t been in the kitchen or the gun range, and Crowley hadn’t seen him either – although tormenting the former king of hell was more Sam’s thing than Dean’s, he admitted.  He’d put off checking his bedroom, because if Dean was sleeping he didn’t want to wake him up, but the need to see him, to talk to him, was starting to overwhelm any other concern.

But the bedroom was empty, the bed made, the side table military-school neat, except for the photograph propped up against the lamp.  Sam picked it up, his thumb gently stroking the surface as he looked at the two faced.  He didn’t remember his mother, barely even remembered the stories Dean used to tell.  But the goofy, happy kid on her lap….

He wished he could remember his brother like that.

When his phone rang, he flipped it open without bothering to check who it was from, assuming it was Dean, checking in, or maybe Kevin.

 “Sam?”

“Cas?  Cas, where are you?”  The fact that Ezekiel had made Dean drive Castiel away was the one thing he’d never be able to forgive, and even the fact that Dean had kept in touch, had made sure the former angel was all right didn’t make that hurt less, that Dean had thought he had to trade one for the other.

Especially since that was Sam’s fault: after what he’d said in the church during the third trial, there was no way Dean _wouldn_ _’t_ think that, that he had to put Sam ahead of everyone else. 

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.  I am on a bus.  The timetable says that I will be there in…” there was a rustling of paper and Sam swore he could _hear_ Cas squinting at the schedule in his hand.  “In four hours.  I will need to be picked up there, Dean said?”

“Dean called you?”  Sam was surprised, and then wondered why he was surprised. 

“Yes.  He said it was safe for me to return, now.”

 “Yeah.  Yeah, we’ll be there, what bus did you take?  What’s the name on the side of the bus, do you have a number?  Was there a bus number on your ticket?  Okay.  Yeah, great.  Yeah… it’ll be good to see you, Cas.”

“You too, Sam.”

 

Sam almost didn’t recognize Cas when he got off the bus that evening.  When he’d seen the former angel last, he’d been shaky with not-being-dead – a thing Sam could relate to – and weirdly…happy.  The man who was heading toward him now looked like Castiel – or like Jimmy Novak, he supposed – but his expression was somewhere between exhausted and resigned, and the dark blue sweater and black jeans were draped over a body that seemed different somehow.

He moved like a person now, Sam realized.  Comfortable in his own skin, but aware of aches and pains and things that might be in his way, rather than the thunderstorm stillness he used to carry.

“Cas.  Hey.  That all your stuff?”

“Yes.  Where is Dean?”

Sam rubbed at his face, trying to figure out how to answer that. “We, ah, we had a fight, just before he called you.  He went off to let me cool off.  Hasn’t gotten back yet.”

“A fight? About what?”

So Dean hadn’t told Cas everything.  Great.  No, he wasn’t going to be the one to explain this: that was Dean’s mess and he got to tell Cas all the ways he’d screwed up.  Sam might be willing to work through their issues but he wasn’t giving his idiot brother a free pass.

“Yeah, that’s going to be his story to tell,” Sam said, tossing Cas’s suitcase into the back seat.  “But since he’s not here, you get shotgun.  Climb in.”

“He told me to call, that he would pick me up…”  Castiel stopped.  “No.  He said to call you, and that you would pick me up.”  His brow wrinkled, and Sam sighed.  Apparently, Dean was avoiding everyone today.

“You are very important to him.  It is not like him to simply…” and Castiel waved one hand, “walk away. ”

 “Yeah, that’s usually my thing.”  Sam’s expression shifted to one that Castiel thought would be called a ‘bitchface.’   “Here,” and he tossed his phone onto Cas’ lap.  “He’s the first contact. Give him a call, tell him to get his ass back to the Bunker.”

When the sound of Dean’s ringtone came out of the glove compartment, muffled but unmistakable, Sam hauled on the wheel hard enough to bring the Impala onto the shoulder of the road, and cut the engine before turning his head to stare at the glove compartment.

But Cas said it first, and best.  “You son of a bitch.”


	2. Chapter 2

Hunting alone was a stupid idea. No matter how smart you were, how fast or how prepared, there was always going to be something that would bite you on the ass.  Then again, it was going to bite you on the ass with a partner, too.  The only difference was-

“Behind you!”

-That you had someone to shout three seconds before it happened.  Dean bent at the knees even as he was turning, swinging the iron pole around and smiling in grim satisfaction when he felt that weird not-quite-an-impact that meant he’d landed a solid one on the ghost, even before he heard its outraged wail.

His other arm came up and his finger slipped under the trigger guard even as Casper the Pissy Ghost came back for another try.  The salt shot sent it into another time out, and he yelled “torch it!”

Maggie wasn’t much as a fighter, but she was hell on wheels as a lighter.  The entire grave filled with flames; he could feel it against his back, somewhere between comforting and painful.

“Say goodnight, grandpa,” Maggie said.  “You miserable son of a bitch.”

           

He slept in a bed that night: too narrow, too hard, but an actual pillow and a blanket, and windows that kept out the early winter wind.

The next morning, Maggie and her dad treated him to breakfast.  The diner was one of the better ones he’d been in: clean, cheerful, with real maple syrup without even asking.  And the coffee was strong, which was his main concern just then.

“So…what are the chances we’re ever going to run into…that, again?”  Her dad was closing in on sixty, as slightly built as his daughter, but his gaze met Dean’s steadily, and he hadn’t flinched at anything the Hunter had told him.

“If you don’t go looking for it?  Pretty slim.”  Dean nodded at the waitress when she offered him a refill on his cup.  “And you want my advice, don’t go looking for it.”

Maggie, who was fourteen, and had seen her grandfather try to take her head off, who had burned his bones and then reburied what remained, almost smiled.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I don’t think I will.”

 “So what next?” the old man asked.  “You have a direction, or just drifting down the road?”

That’s how he had landed here, just northwest of Albany: drifting down the road.

Dean shrugged, smiling with half of his mouth – it was too much effort to grin any more, most days, but people still responded, smiling back at him, their defenses lowered.  “Figured I’d head downstate for a bit, follow the river until something interesting happens.”

Interesting like a ghost, or a ‘shifter, or something else that needed killing.  It seemed there wasn’t any lack of them, around here. 

If that was all he was good at, then he’d do that.

           

There wasn’t cause to hang around longer, when he’d had his fill of coffee.  Dean waved off the father-daughter pair from getting up when he did: anything they had to say had already been said, and goodbyes were pointless.  He’d been in their lives less than forty-eight hours: how much could a good-bye mean?

The car waiting for him outside was, charitably, a junker.  On the outside, anyway.  He’d lifted it out of a junkyard in Illinois, then honed the engine of the ’79 El Camino with bartered parts and knuckle grease, making the V8 purr like a kitten.

“Ready to go, doll?”  He couldn’t call this car baby, couldn’t bring himself to love it , but there was no reason to be rude to your traveling companion.  And if sometimes he’d look to his right, or glance in the rear view mirror, and think he saw something shifting there, adjusting their posture during a long drive….

Well, he made a living putting down ghosts.  He could do a few more.

#

 It had been two months.  Eight weeks. Sixty-one days. Kevin went back into hibernation, muttering about translations, Castiel's presence a goad to translate more, faster, to find an answer _somewhere_.  Cas had dropped his suitcase in one of the spare rooms, and Sam was pretty sure slept there at least a few hours every night, but the rest of the time he spent in the library, sorting through the books Sam couldn’t read, making notes in handwriting that could have been used as a template for some of the older illuminated manuscripts, both precise and cursive. They were focused on finding an answer they could accept, to get the angels the hell off earth.

Dean didn’t call, didn’t contact them.

Sam had explained the fight, several days after his arrival.  Cas had listened to the other man’s halting explanations, trying to fill in the parts he didn’t know, the details about what had happened with Ezekiel that only Dean had.

“It is my fault,” Cas had told Sam.  “I vouched for Ezekiel.  He had been a good soldier.”  He’d licked his lips, and sighed, a human habit he’d wholeheartedly adopted.  “Not that being a good soldier is any reason to trust anyone, least of all an angel.”

If Dean had been there he would have clapped Cas on the shoulder, made some comment about learning sarcasm, or human bitterness.  Sam couldn’t: he was angry, and he was worried, and he didn’t want to direct any of that at Cas, who couldn’t have known what Dean would do with that information…       

Although by now they should have known that Dean was an idiot. Especially when it came to them.

 

They didn’t talk about it after that, Dean’s absence an invisible fourth presence in the Bunker, weighing down every conversation, shadowing every move.

Kevin tried, once – suggesting, offhandedly, that maybe they could use a spell to find Dean.

“No,” Castiel had said – had snapped, actually, making the others look at him with more shock than he felt was warranted.  He frowned, not wanting to say that he didn’t want anything – a witch’s spell or some other magic – reaching for Dean, when he could not.  “I don’t…believe that it would be wise, to advertise that he is out there on his own.”

Nobody had anything to say to that.  They had the Bunker, the advantage of numbers when they went on a hunt.  Castiel was right: Dean, on his own, was a target for too many things, angels included.

 

Very late that night, or very early in the morning, Cas and Sam found themselves in the kitchen, wrapped around coffee mugs and toast, aware that they were trespassing in someone else’s domain.

In the stillness, Castiel felt the words slip out of his mouth unbidden, filled with hurt.  “Why won’t he come home?”

Sam sighed.  “Because…this is Dean, Cas.  He does something stupid, he overcompensates.”

It had to be by choice.  Neither of them could accept the thought that Dean might not be _able_ to come home. 

“Look, just…. he left his phone, his picture of mom, hell, he left _Baby_.  He told you to come _here_. He’ll be back.”

But as the weeks went on without a word, even Sam had trouble believing that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little time apart gives you time to think.

There had been an angel in Yonkers, just north of New York City.  They’d seen each other across the street, light snow dropping between them, and don’t ask how he’d known it was an angel - by now Dean had some kind of fucking sixth sense about it.  But they’d seen each other and known.

And then the damned angel – the vessel was in his forties, with shaggy blond heir and a square, almost dumb-looking face except for those too-keen eyes – had raised a hand in salute, had nodded, and kept walking.

No attack, no posturing, nothing except that _I know you and you know me_ look.

Dean had gotten better about supernatural shit. If there wasn't a case, no missing bodies or dead people in suspicious - or too familiar - circumstances, he walked away, left them alone. But angels... They hadn't earned a pass. Not ever, from him.

Dean had followed him all day, keeping his distance but not trying to hide.  The angel had picked up fucking dry cleaning and gotten a hair cut, of all things, and then gone to work – he was a bartender at a place that reminded Dean too much of the Roadhouse, except he didn’t recognize the names on the taps, and the customers were younger, less road-worn. 

And alive, Dean reminded himself.  Nobody had come in and –

He pulled that thought and locked it down with the others.

On the tiny wooden stage, a band that wasn’t half bad started to play, decent bass and drums, playing something that sounded vaguely familiar, maybe something Sam’d listened to.

He locked that memory down, too.  He didn’t deserve those memories. Not yet.

“Winchester, right?”

He managed not to pull a weapon – any weapon – on the waitress, a cute little thing who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, her hair done up in perky braids and hipster glasses resting low on her nose.

“The older one, I’m guessing, since you’re not hitting the ceiling.”

“Dean,” he said since there didn’t seem to be much point in denying it.  If it came to a fight…well, he was outgunned and outnumbered, but he still had a few tricks left.

“Scott thought so.  I’m Kerry. Scott’s my uncle.”

“Scott?”

She gestured to the bartender, who was busy serving someone else, but Dean could tell his attention was on the two of them more than the drink he was pouring.

“And yeah I know he’s not entirely my uncle any more, not exactly, but it works.”

“And your uncle’s okay with that? Your _actual_ uncle?”  The knot that never left his chest tugged itself a little deeper, emotional rope burn a familiar sensation now.

Kerry swallowed, her shoulders hunching up around her ears before they lowered, and she smiled, a little grim, a little sad, but a real smile nonetheless. “He’d been twelve-stepping for a couple of years now.  Heroin.  So I guess once you give yourself up to a higher power, you take what it sends you?”

Dean couldn’t help the snort that escaped him.  The only thing the higher powers had ever set him was shit and heartache. 

“The angel came to him, offered help, in exchange for a place to crash for a while.  He’s been clean for months, not even a twitch of an urge.  So yeah, he’s okay with it.  Are you?”

He wasn’t.  He wanted to burn every angel off the face of the earth, or at least strip them of their grace and leave them by the side of the road so they could know what it felt like to be helpless, afraid, alone.

He had no room, no right to judge.  He was a bigger dick then any of them, with less chance of forgiveness.

“His vessel’s okay with the deal, not my business to interfere,” he said, and she left him to his beer.

He finished his beer, and left before the band had finished their first act, taking the Tappan Zee across the Hudson into New Jersey and gunning it south through the state like a Springsteen song.

 

Pennsylvania brought him a werewolf hunt, and a new scar across his forearm.  The other hunter, a young guy, fast but not too experienced yet, patched him up with a minimum of talk or fuss.

“You ever run into something you don’t know how to handle, or need some research done right, and fast, call this number,” Dean told him.

The kid – and he was a kid, probably wasn’t even shaving yet, damn it – took the number, frowning.  “Garth? But I thought-”

“Better,” Dean promised him.  “Men of Letters.”

#

 

“Okay yeah, no problem. “  They’d run into those before, he’d had the information to hand, so if it helped someone else out, great.  “Say, ah, where did you get this number, anyway?”  Even as he asked, even before the voice at the other end of the phone told him, Sam knew.

“A guy helped a friend of mine out, a couple of weeks ago.  Gave him this number, in case anything else…weird, happened.  You know?”

He knew. 

That was the fifth call in as many weeks, with a variation of the same response: a guy gave me the number.  Where is he?  No idea.  Came and moved on, a week maybe two or three or four ago…. 

The first three calls had been from hunters, but the last two… ordinary people.  Civilians.  Well, civilians who’d gotten caught up in the front line.  And instead of panicking or getting killed, they’d dialed the number some guy had given a friend of a friend.  A lifeline for freaky shit.

In the first case, Sam had been able to get there in time to help.  But this guy, he didn’t need a hunter, he just needed…information.  A way to burn out the lijk infesting the crematorium without anyone else getting hurt.

If this was going to become a thing, and it looked like Dean had decided it  _was_ , then they needed to be ready for it.  

“Kevin!”  They needed to figure out how the Bunker’s intercom worked, or fix everyone up with Bluetooth, because yelling for people was a crap system.

“He’s got lunch duty,” Castiel said.  “Do you want me to get him?”

“No, it can wait.”  Kevin had requested Crowley duty.  Sam wasn’t sure it was a smart idea, but keeping only one person on rotation kept the former King of Hell from realizing that Dean wasn’t here, which meant one less thing the demon could use against them.

And Kevin always came back from the dungeon with that particularly satisfied, slightly mean smile that would make Sam worry, if he didn’t have more immediate concerns.

Because whatever the hell Dean was doing – _hunting_ his brain told him.  He’s _hunting.  Alone_ -  he was handing out Sam’s burner phone number as he went.  The phone that was now constantly on, plugged in and left in the main hall, twenty-four seven.

The Hunting world was being told that the Men of Letters were back among the living.  And that was good… he supposed.  So long as nobody knew _where_ they were, or that the roster was down to one man.

Well, one man, a prophet, one woman currently on leave in Oz, and one former angel who was still trying to learn how to be human.

And a hunter who was hunting _alone_.

Sam was going to kill his brother, when he finally tracked him down. And then he was going to kill him _again_ , to make sure the message got through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it will take a few days after tonight's episode/anticipated post-ep flailing to get my brain back into story-mode: next update will probably be Friday or Saturday.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's heading into trouble. Sam's tolerance is about to snap. Cas is coming to some realizations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a quicker-than-expected update, for those who need some AU denial after last night's episode...

Dean’d finally had enough of the snow and the cold, and headed down south. He’d paused in South Carolina for a few days when he ran into another hunter, someone he hadn’t seen since he was still hunting with his dad.

The temptation to pass on by without acknowledging was intense, a sharp prod in the back, but when the other man raised his mug across the diner, Dean had slid into the booth across from him without hesitation.

“Dean.”  Alex, that was his name.  Alex something Russian.  “Long time no see.  You’ve been busy.”           

And that was it, the only reference to the past decade of his life.  Despite himself, Dean felt a real smile form.  He’d forgotten how…deadpan hunters could be, living with his emo-moose brother.

They’d talked shop, of course: recent jobs, new weapons, the usual things. Then Dean asked about anything particularly unusual happening.

“In this line of work?  The only thing that’s unusual is when things get ‘usual,’ if you know what I mean.”  Alex rolled his eyes over-dramatically.  “Although….”

Dean forced himself to stay relaxed, just two good old boys shooting the breeze.

“Last town I was in, bit south of here, there was a group that pinged my radar, you know?  Nothing I could pinpoint, they hadn’t done anything _wrong,_ no bodies showing up, no howls in the night or unexplained woogums….”

“But?”

“But they freaked me out.  And I don’t freak easy.”

Dean could believe that.  “This group have a name?”

“Yeah, um, the Holy Fire Hymnal, I think?  They were a men’s choral group, if you can believe that.  Get together every Sunday to sing praises to God, instead of watching football. In the South?”

“Huh.  Well, that would be enough to weird me out,” Dean said, cracking a practiced smile.  “What town was that, so I know to avoid drinking the water there?”

 

So now he had a direction, and a destination.  Angels.  It had to be angels, envesseling the devout again.  And Dean had doubts it was a quid pro quo thing, not that many, not snatching up the already-religiously-inclined.

“And even if they agreed, they had no idea what they were getting into.  Or what was getting into them.”  He slapped a hand against the dashboard, unable to express his frustration in any other way just then.  Not just Sam – Jimmy hadn’t known, either.  Had hitched himself to a comet because one of god’s angels told him to, and what did he get out of it?  Life as a meatsuit, to keep his daughter from going through the same thing.  Dean couldn’t say Cas hadn’t had all the best intentions in the world, but the end result was the same: getting your skin hijacked, and your soul stuffed in a box.

And it wasn’t like god cared about your sacrifice.

#

The irritation Castiel felt was completely out of proportion.  He knew that.  He also didn’t care.  “That’s the third shirt I’ve ruined this month.”

Sam snorted, not even trying to look sympathetic.  “You went how many years wearing the same shirt?  And now you’re a fashion plate?”

“It is because I went so many years wearing the same shirt that I appreciate the variety, now.”  Cas looked mournfully at the ichor-coated shirt in his hands, then sighed and dumped it into the medical-grade trash bag Sam was holding in front of him.  “At least my shoes escaped the blast.  I had just broken them in properly.”

Dean used to complain about breaking boots in.  Castiel had never understood why it was so important until he had his first blister.  He wiggled his toes, and felt the ache in his throat that felt like he’d swallowed wrong, that came when he thought about Dean unexpectedly.

They didn’t talk about Dean any more.  Never in complete sentences.  They talked about hunts, and research, and argued over what to do with Crowley, and everything except Dean Winchester.

“All right, let me get rid of these,” and Sam gestured with the bag.  “You…get dressed.  I don’t want a repeat of Michigan.”

“Nor do I,” Cas said, reaching behind him for a fresh shirt, pulling it over his head with an ease he would not have imagined a few months ago.  “Michigan was…unpleasant.”

Not that he had anything against being approached.  He had discovered that sex was quite enjoyable, so long as his partner did not try to kill him, after.  But the novelty had worn off, and Sam’s lecture about choosing partners who meant something to you had sunk in.

Cas wanted his next time to have that. To _mean_ something more than a momentary flush of warmth and laxness of limbs. For the warmth to linger.

He supposed, he thought with a quirk of his lips, that he was growing up.

He did feel older, somehow. Not only tired, human-tired, that sense of welcoming sleep and reluctance to wake, but more settled into a sense of self. Sam and Kevein still searched for a cure, but he had accepted that there was no way to reverse Metatron’s spell, at least for him.  And he had found reasons to enjoy being human, being _mortal_.  Sex, yes, and food, and the feel of sunlight on his skin and the satiation of hunger, but things deeper than that.  Being a hunter appealed to something within him, a connection between who he had been and who he had become.  If they could only find a way to send his brothers back – or at least stop them from wreaking havoc on the mortal population – he might even say he was content.

He’d learned not to ask for anything more, to be thankful for the moments when nothing hurt, when he could feel his place within the workings of the universe again, even if not all the cogs were in place _._

He was putting his cell phone back in his pocket, after checking to make sure that none of the ichor had reached the casing, when it buzzed slightly in his hand.  Cas blinked, confused.  Sam had just gone outside, and there was no reason Kevin would be texting _him._

There was only one other person who had this phone’s number.

He forgot to breathe until he’d tapped the screen and made the message appear.

_happy new year_

That was all.  Castiel blinked, then huffed a surprised laugh.  It _was_ New Year’s Eve, he’d forgotten.

All the things he wanted to say, the things he wanted to _yell_ , flooded his mind, and his fingers twitched over the display.  But instead, he just typed in _you too._ And then, before he could second-guess himself, added _we miss you._

There was no follow-up text.

 

Castiel wanted to hold the text to himself, a secret pleasure. Dean had texted _him_ , after all. The odd selfishness of the thought should have been distressing, but wasn't; instead, it warmed him in places he hadn't realized were cold.  But the expression on Sam's face, the burst of relief, however quickly it was covered by irritation and frustration, told him he'd made the right choice in sharing. Dean was Sam's brother. Whatever damage they had done to each other, the love ran deeper.

And whatever Dean was to Cas.... This mortal body understood things an angel could never comprehend, even if he wasn't quite sure what it all meant, yet, or how it might end. For now, it was enough that they knew he was alive, safe, thinking of them.

"He didn't say where he was?"

"No. But he is in the Eastern time zone. Assuming he texted at midnight, where he was."

 

Sam’s attempt to trace back the number – and Kevin’s more exhaustive attempts, back at the Bunker, came up empty.   The number Dean had used was now out of service, last user location unknown.

“Sorry, guys,” Kevin said.  “I’ll try again, but-“

“No. It’s okay.”  Sam made himself smile at the prophet, who was listing dangerously to one side.  “You look like you need about seven hours of sleep.”

“You aren’t kidding.  Happy new year’s, see you in the morning.  Or maybe the afternoon.” 

Kevin waggled the fingers of one hand in farewell, and shuffled off, heading for his room.  The two men were left sitting at the table, feeling the air around them echo with silence.

“Dean-“ Castiel started to say, and Sam cut him off, not brusque but firm.

“He’s made his choice.”  There were lines around Sam’s eyes that hadn’t been there six months before.  “He walked.  Four months, Cas.  Four months, and one text.”  To you not to me: unspoken but heard.

“He’s made it damn clear he doesn’t want us to find him, so what the hell are we supposed to do?”

“Wait.”  Castiel touched the phone in his pocket, as though it were a talisman.  Perhaps it was. 

“For what?  Him to get over himself?”  Sam snorted at the unlikelihood of that.

“For him to forgive himself.  For us to forgive him.”

Sam swore, and pulled himself up out of his chair, pacing across the room like a caged tiger, but he didn’t argue any more.

_Come home_ , Castiel thought, as though the phone might pick up his thoughts and carry them to Dean with all the power of prayer. _This will never be right until you come home._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kevin cracks the case. Well, kinda.

He really, really wanted to kick all of them.  Except that would be kind of like kicking puppies - okay, except Crowley-  and even on his worst day, Kevin wasn’t the sort to kick puppies.  Not even when they growled at him.

But the urge was there, anyway.  Starting with Sam.

“We need-“

“I know what we need,” Kevin shot back.  “Back off for a minute, okay?  Your intensity is giving me a migraine, and seriously, I don’t need that kind of help.”

The expression on Sam’s face could have curdled cheese, but he backed off, stalking away from the table like a pissed-off giraffe.  Kevin sighed, and dropped his gaze back down to the text he was trying to translate.  Some days, he almost missed OccupiedSam. 

“He misses his brother.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”  He hadn’t heard Castiel come into the room.  “I don’t think I ever realized how much of Sam’s socialization came from Dean, before.”

There was silence, and he turned his head to look at the former angel, who was looking back at him with a quizzical expression on his face, like he had no idea what Kevin was talking about.

“I mean...Sam’s a good guy, he’s smart and he’s well-meaning, but you take Dean out of the equation and I wonder sometimes how much Sam actually gives a fuck, you know?  The guy _abandoned_ me, remember.  For what, like a year?”  Kevin shrugged, and went back to his work.  “So yeah, trust me, I get that he misses Dean.  So do I.”

Castiel might have left, or he might still be sitting there, blinking at him.  Without looking, it was tough to tell: even human, he was quiet.  Kevin wanted to kick him, just for being so damn _calm._  Guy was hurting, maybe even as much as Sam, and the way he kept walking past Dean’s room like he thought nobody was noticing…yeah, not so much.  As poker faces went, Castiel didn’t have it.

Most of all, though, Kevin wanted to kick Dean. Really fucking hard, somewhere it would hurt.  Not just for leaving – maybe a little jealousy that the bastard _could_ walk out and leave – but because he’d left such a mess behind.  Two messes.  Hell, three. The bastard tells him he’s family, tells him he’s _wanted_ , not just needed, and then walks?

He hoped, wherever the older Winchester was, he was feeling at least a _little_ guilt.

Scratch that.  _All_ the guilt.

“Oh.”  He blinked at the page, then held up a hand as though to summon the others to him.  It worked on Castiel, anyway: the former angel was at his shoulder immediately.  “Lookit this.  Is this what I think it is?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick hit chapter, because I have Feels and needed to write a Kevin-centric scene.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heading in the wrong direction, a discovery, and a complication.

 “You,” Dean told the car, “are a pain in the ass.”  He finished refueling, and screwed the cap back on.  The weather was warmer down here, relatively speaking, and a far cry from the winters back ho- back in Kansas, but he could still feel a chill in his bones that not even the sweater he was wearing under his jacket could erase.  Maybe a few layers of flannel…

The single flannel shirt he had in his bag had stayed there since he left the Bunker.  He’d look at it occasionally, run his hand over the nap, but never wore it.  Sam had joked, once, that flannel was the Winchester family uniform, and Dean might not be all into introspection and shit but he knew damn well why he wasn’t wearing that shirt.

Sweaters didn’t make him into a different person, any more than driving  the El Camino did. But he could feel each chip away at who he’d been, scraping off a layer one quarter-inch at a time.

The attendant took his credit card without looking up from his newspaper, mumbling something in response to dean’s greeting.  Southern hospitality might be warm, but on an early January morning it was about par with everywhere else in the country.

Dean got back into the car with a groan of relief, his body almost as familiar with the El Camino’s seat as he’d been the Impala’s. He checked the tank again to make sure it was full, and started the engine, pulling back out onto the road. 

As he shifted lanes, his gaze caught on the cell phone stashed under the dash.  His free hand reached for it before he could control the motion, running his fingers over the screen.

He shouldn’t have sent that text last week.  Without him hovering, _interfering_ , Sam and Cas had a chance to heal, to make their own choices.  To be _safe_.

And if Sam decided he didn’t want to do this any more, if he wanted…out.  Then Dean had to accept that.  Had to be ready for that.  And really, being on his own wasn’t so hard. Saving people, hunting dangerous things…the family business.

A family of one.

Better that way.  Safer.

And if he needed backup, well, there were other hunters out there, and not all of them flinched at his name, right?

Dean put both hands on the wheel, and took the exit for 29 South, heading down into Florida.

#

“You think you’ve found something?”

“I _know_ I’ve found something.”  Kevin was obviously still pissed, and Sam stopped, lifting his hands, palm out.  “Hey, okay. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Guys.  Please.”  Castiel felt a headache building.  He remembered what Kevin had said, about Dean being a, what was it?  A socializing influence on Sam, and wondered if it wasn’t true for all three of them. His horrible jokes and contorted expressions, his unexpected kindnesses…

and his inability to trust, his broken, splintered, _damaging_ need for affection, Cas reminded himself.  The Righteous Man, yes, but no saint.

“I found a reference in the Mahamina Codex,” Kevin was saying.  “About losing the way to Heaven, and finding a key to enter it again.”

“An actual key?” Sam's eyebrows nearly hit his hairline.

“I doubt there is a physical key,” Castiel said.  “But a way to open Heaven’s gate, yes.  The actual wording was more along th lines of ‘undoing what should not have been done.’”

 “A cure-all for angelic goofs?” 

“Perhaps.  It’s likely that this is not the first time in our history that angels have become…overzealous.”  Cas suddenly realized what he’d said, and laughed self-consciously.  “Not even the second or third time, I suppose.”

“So someone created a metaphysical eraser?”  Sam shoved a lock of hair off his face, and pursed his lips, thinking it over.  “Great. Now tell me the bad news.”

“Bad news?”

“We’ve yet to run into a spell, especially this big, that doesn’t have a cost.  Or have you forgotten already, Cas?”

The other two stared at Sam, and he sighed, running a hand through his hair again.  “Right.  Sorry, that was… “

“A shitty thing to say?” Kevin suggested.

“Yeah.  I’m sorry, Cas.”

He made a gesture as though to say it wasn’t important, but it had stung – both the reminder, and the implication that he had somehow forgotten, that he hadn’t suffered, too

“No.” They hadn't seen Puppy Eyes Sam in a while, but there it was, in full force.   "Cas, I’m sorry.  I’ve been… an ass lately.”  Sam’s mouth firmed, clearly trying not to let himself say more, because it would be all the wrong things to say – excuses and counter-accusations nobody needed to hear right now. It didn't matter: Castiel could hear them anyway, and he knew Sam knew it. “So what’s the deal on the spell, Kevin?”

“Three elements.  I guess the Law of Three is a constant, huh?  Anyway, even translated this is all sorts of dodgy, but Cas thinks he’s been able to find the right word here and here,” he pointed to a spot in his notes, “where I wasn’t sure –“

He stopped hard, like someone'd slapped him, and shook his head when the others looked at him quizzically.  “If Dean were here, he’d tell us to stop geeking and get to the point already.  The spell has three elements, I guess maybe to mirror the three elements of the original spell, although how they knew…anyway.  The first is a purified fox’s heart.  That kinda skeeved me out until we figured it was metaphorical, not an actual pulled-out-of-the-chest heart.”

“A fox, presumably symbolic, purified in the theological sense,” Castiel said.  “The actual translation would mean, I think, one who has been brought to a state of new beginnings, who is free of shame or bitterness.”

They looked at each other, then looked away again.

“The second’s a little easier,” Kevin went on, filling the brief, awkward silence.  “A source of threefold blood.”

“Threefold blood?  How does that qualify was ‘easier?’”

Castiel glanced and Kevin, then said, “We think… that may refer to you, Sam.”

“Oh."  Demon, human...angel.  "Ugh.  Yeah.  So, the third?”

“That’s where we’re probably screwed,” Kevin admitted.  “If Castiel’s right….”

“I am.”

“We need God’s blessing.”

Sam pressed the palm of his hands against his eyes, and sighed. “Oh, great.” 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets a Revelation, and a slight change in plans. A new character returns. The author starts to clean up plot threads Show left dangling.

Of all the people Dean Winchester had been expecting to see in a reasonably nice roadside bar in the Florida Panhandle, it wasn’t a well-rested, tanned Chuck Shurley. 

_Impossible_ , was his first thought.  _Fucking impossible_ was his second, followed hard on its heels by _why am I even fucking surprised by anything anymore_?

He didn’t let surprise slow him down, though.  Moving across the floor with a smiled apology to anyone he had to move out of the way, he slid into the both across from him, not caring if the other man was waiting for someone else.

“Hello, Chuck.”

“Dean.  Hi.”

The bastard didn’t even have the decency to pretend to be someone else, or even sound surprised.

“You son of a … you kept publishing those damn books.”  And disappeared, presumed very dead, but first things first.

Chuck shrugged, turning his glass around on the table, watching the brown liquid as it sloshed slightly around the ice cubes.  “I had to make a living somehow.  The royalties on those damned books, as you call ‘em, weren’t enough to pay my phone bill, much less room and board.”  Chuck sighed.  “Writing’s a crap way to make a living, Dean.  I should have gone into real estate.” 

The calm, almost resigned tone sucked all of Dean’s anger away.  It wasn’t like he was going to beat the guy up, anyway.  And god knew, he was higher in the running for dick of the year than one washed-up prophet.

 “If it makes you feel any better, there aren’t any more books.  Haven’t been for a while.  Once the conduit closed, the visions stopped.  And I’m just as glad – that was not part of the plan, trust me.  Dreams, migraines, compulsion…. Being a prophet was a lot worse than I’d realized.  I feel like I owe people an apology.”

“You….” Dean stopped, and looked more closely at Chuck.  “Why would you owe people an apology?  I mean, other than me and Sam because you _totally_ owe us an apology.”  He frowned.  “Hey, wait.  If Kevin was called…how are you still alive?  Isn’t it lose one, call one?”

“Ah.” Chuck studied his drink.  “Yes well, I had some leeway in that.  I… removed myself from this awareness briefly, just long enough for my absence to be recorded, thereby allowing the next prophet to be called. Not exactly by the rules, but….”       

“You…removed yourself.”  His hand went instinctively for his knife – not the demon blade, but a wicked little thing:  bone-of-saint handle, with a core of silver and Enochian ruins carved in the blade. “That’s not a particularly human thing to do, Chuck.”

“Because I’m not particularly human, Dean,” the former prophet said, his tone shifting from rueful into gently mocking.  “Let go of the knife before we startle the rest of the folk here, all right?  If I were going to hurt you, you think I wouldn’t have already?”  He paused, then huffed in something that wasn’t quite amusement.  “Well, I guess I have, actually.  A lot.  But never with malice.  Never with malice, Dean.”

Den didn’t relax, and he didn’t let go of the knife, but he did lean back.  A little.  “What the hell are you?”

“What was I, is the better question.  Past tense.   Where once We were great, now I am small, once We were mighty and now…. Well, less mighty.  Far, far less mighty.”  He didn’t sound all that displeased about the fact.  “I was god, Dean.  Or, I was part of god, because not all that fit into this shell, not with all the lube in the world.”  He laughed again, still without amusement.  “Like being an amputee, it took me so long to even walk without falling over.  Thankfully, everyone just assumed I was drunk.  Which, actually, I was.”

“You were…god.”  Dean was having trouble believing he was hearing what he was hearing.  “God, god?”

He smiled. “None other.”     

“You’re god.”

“Was god.  Lower case g, now.  No more Almighty.”

The past few months of constant movement, of trying to do the right thing for the right reasons, of _fixing_ shit without shortcuts or evasions, fell on Dean like a particularly ironic anvil. “So all of this, the books, all the **crap** we’ve been through…?”

“Most of it of your own doing.”  Chuck looked up from his drink, meeting Dean’s gaze for the first time since he’d sat down opposite him.  “You were shoved into a situation, yeah, but you made your own choices.  All I did was document then…. more or less as they were happening.”

“More or less….”  Dean felt his fingers clench more tightly around the hilt of the knife, and forced is fingers to unclench.  It was a good knife, but it couldn’t kill a god, much less God.  Although he was itching to find out of a solid punch to the nose would do anything.

“And Cas?  Metatron? The angels falling?”

“Castiel… We never saw Castiel coming.”  Chuck laughed at the expression on Dean’s face, the first real laugh he’d made since the mortal’s arrival.  “Not everything is written in stone, Dean.  Some things aren’t even written on paper.  Once I came down here,” and a flick of his hand covered the room, the house, the planet, “all of that was hidden from me, same as from you. Except when the visions came, and even that… I didn’t have the entire script any more.”

Disbelief and anger muddled together into a swirl of confusion. “So Cas saving me…”

“A Righteous Man would break in Hell, and be saved.  We knew that. But that the angel who brought him forth from damnation would answer to his summons, would stand by his side in the trials to come?  No.  No Dean, We did not see that. In fact, that you were also a true vessel for Michael?  The fact that your brother would be Lucifer’s true vessel, the two of you sons of the first brothers, who shed each others’ blood?  Didn’t see that coming, either.  I mean, I appreciate the neatness of the plotting, don’t get me wrong, but… We didn’t see it.”

“So all this…”  Everything, he meant.  His entire damned life.

“All this was you.  Humanity, and angels, and demons, making decisions.  Making your own story.”

“Yeah, now you sound like Metatron. Who is writing his own story right now, by the way, and the reviews are crap.”

Chuck’s expression folded into a frown.  “Metatron. We put too much weight on him, confiding in him as we did.  That’s, as you say, on me.”

“Right, great. So can’t you just….”  Dean made a vague hand movement that even he knew looked idiotic.

“No.”  For the first time, Chuck looked regretful.  “The things that have been set in play…they need to play out.  I’m not going back, Dean.  That Age is over.”

“So what, you sail into the West and Men and Hobbits have a Golden Age?”

“If that is what they build, yes.  Or another god will come along and it will become their Age.  I don’t know.  It’s….refreshing not to know.  To not even have the visions, any more.  It’s all out of my hands.”

Dean shook his head.  “That’s crap. You’re still a god, even if not The God of Abraham and Isaac, whatever, right?  You’ve still got mojo. You said yourself, Metatron’s your fault. You can do something.” 

“Dean.  No.  I’m tired.  Even gods get tired.  I gave you free will, and brains, and heart.”

“And what did you give the angels, Chuck?  ‘Cause they’re down here, still mojo’d, and some of ‘em are doing a lot of damage.” 

Chuck shook his head, and lifted his glass.  “We gave them you.”

Dean muttered something under his breath. “That’s not good enough.  People – innocent people – are _dying._ Being turned into meatsuits, or splattered across the landscape, while the angels play out West Side Story.  You tell us to make things right, clean up our messes, take care of each other?  Well, they’re _your_ kids.  Man the fuck up.”

Chuck considered his glass, then sighed and put it down.  “Guilt, logic, and maternal pressure.  Always effective.  I assume you have a plan?”

“Not even the faintest glimmer of one,” Dean said, with a grim sort of cheerfulness.  He stole the glass out of Chuck’s hand, downing the whiskey in a single shot. “But there’s a bunch of ‘em local, here and now, using humans like sleeping bags.  How ‘bout we ditch this place, and go cancel their slumber party?”

Chuck had always had a fondness for bad metaphors.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. I've got an entire headcanon about Chuck. All he really wants to do is deep-sea fish, drink Presidente, and get a nice, pre-cancerous tan... Sorry, Chuck.
> 
>  
> 
> And yeah, if you caught the switch between plural and singular, that was intentional. Chuck's got some pronoun confusion going on, for obvious reasons.
> 
>  
> 
> (next update probably won't be for a few days - Sam and Crowley need to hammer a few things out.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is - unwillingly - helpful, and Team Free Will (minus their village idiot) is on the case. Adults are actually acting like adults here, perish the thought.

“Oh yay, breakfast with my favorite garçon.  What is the special of the day, I hope it’s not porridge again, that’s so 2013.”

“Eggs and oatmeal.  You can guess which one I put the rat poison in.”  Kevin placed the tray at his end of the table and pushed it forward to where Crowley sat.  They’d extended his chains so that he could get up and stretch, but not so much that he could move around the table.  And after a minor temper tantrum, the table had been bolted to the floor as well. 

Crowley sniffed at the plates, then picked up his spoon and poked at the eggs.  “If you haven’t poisoned me yet, you probably aren’t going to, more’s the pity. A little bleeding from the mouth and nose would liven up the day, don’t you think?”

“Don’t forget the rectal bleeding.”

“You’ve been doing your research!  I’m so proud of you, Kevin my boy.”

“Did you know that there are poisons that will liquefy your organs without you ever knowing anything’s wrong?”

“Why yes, yes I did.”  Crowly took a bite of the oatmeal and swallowed thoughtfully.  “Needs a little more cinnamon.  Is there anything else?  Do the Magnificent Idiots have more questions to ask?  I miss the Moose – is he going to come down and hit me some more?”

“Probably not.  I think you were starting to bore him.”

“Ah.  A pity.  But then, I have you instead, the light of my days.  Or is it night?  So hard to tell in these accomodations.”

Kevin had turned to leave, but that stopped him.  He faced Crowley again, squinting at the former king of hell.  “You actually don’t mind this, do you?”

“Excuse me?”

“All this.  You’re… it’s a game, and you aren’t pissed.”

“I’m furious,” Crowley said, trying the eggs this time.  “And given half a chance at it, I’d break your neck and leave you for the rats I hear scurrying around here on my way out.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kevin waved off the words.  “But it wouldn’t be personal, would it?  It’d just be… Huh.” 

"What?"  Crowly was suddenly suspicious.  "What are you up to, prophet?"

Kevin studied Crowley, then grinned at him.  “Congratulations, you’re finally going to be useful.”

He was still grinning when Crowley threw the bowl of oatmeal at him, splattering against the closing door.

 

 

  #

 “You’re sure?”   Sam felt particularly doubtful, standing just inside the holding cell’s door and studying Crowley, who looked back, eyebrows raised.

“No I’m not sure!”  Kevin glared at Crowley, then turned back to Sam and Cas.  “But for all that he’s an ass and a manipulator and selfish and weak as a human… he fits every symbolic representation of the fox.  And he’s been purified _._ And he’s _right here_.  You want to go running around looking for someone else?  We’ve got that kind of time?”

“So the thing that would have shut hell forever is used to re-open heaven?”  Sam had to admit that the irony of it appealed to him.  “Cas?”

Crowley had been listening to them, trying to follow the conversation that had been in full swing when they came downstairs and into his cell.  At this point, with the three of them looking at him, he took a stab at what he was pretty sure was the pertinent point.  “Who’re you calling a thing, moose?”

Castiel shook his head, ignoring the ex-demon. “Relying on Crowley is a bad idea.”

“Aw, now you’re just hurting my feelings.”

“Shut it, Crowley,” Sam said. “I agree, but Kevin’s right, it fits, and he’s here.  We’ll try it.  If we’re wrong… we’re just back where we started, no worse.”   He waited until Castiel gave a short, unhappy nod.  Bad ideas were pretty much their entire toolbox, these days.

“Anyone want to bring me into to this little tete-a-tete-a-tete, or am I supposed to just sit here and look pretty?  Speaking of which, where’s your brother, Moose?  Is he still snubbing me?”

“You want to earn your freedom, Crowley?”  Sam stepped forward, shoulders back, intentionally presenting as large a target as possible to distract him from asking about Dean.  “Now’s your chance.”

“I already told you, I have no intention – “

“And we don’t want information,” he said.  “We’re looking for something a little more personal.”

“Your heart.”  Kevin couldn’t resist throwing that in, since he’d been the one to think of it.

“My what?”  If possible, those eyebrows went higher.

“Kevin seems to think that you meet the stipulations for a spell ingredient.  So-“

“I’m still not sure that this is a good idea,” Castiel said, his arms folded across his chest and a humans-are-all-idiots expression on his face.

“It’s the only idea we have, Cas.  And if it doesn’t work, hey, fine, we’ll try something else.  But-”

“Um, ladies?  If I understand things correctly, you’re talking about cutting out MY HEART!”  The sudden – familiar - yell took them all by surprise – including Crowley.  “Excuse me if I’m not all on board with that idea.”

“I am!” Kevin said, and that grin was back on his face, the one that worried Sam, occasionally.

“The wording did not specify that the heart needed to be removed,” Castiel reminded him, shooting the prophet what was supposed to be a quelling glance.  “Only that it needed to be given.  Willingly.”

“Hmph.”  The former King of Hell didn’t seem appeased by that. “And you bozos think…”

“If we can reverse the spell,” Sam said quietly, “and get the angels sorted back into heaven, so they’ll stop massacring each other down here, we can focus on getting Abaddon back under lock and key.”

There was a moment of silence, and then, “Well then.”  Crowley smiled, and folded his hands on the table in front of him, the picture of reasonableness.  “You see, gentlemen? Offer the right incentive, everyone wins.”

“So what, he pledges his heart and that’s it?”  Kevin was clearly disappointed that there would be no organ removal, like he expected Crowley to weasel out somehow.  Honestly, so did Sam.

“Pledging one’s heart is an ancient phrase,” Castiel said slowly, clearly against his better judgment.  “And the most powerful spells are often the simplest.  The power is not in the difficulty of acquisition, but the strength of the ingredients.  A human heart, whole-hearted, if you will, put toward an end is….a very powerful thing.”

Sam’s gaze flicked toward him, then away again. 

 _Don’t you dare think that there is anything, past or present, that I would put in front of you."_  His brother’s expression, anguish and anger mingled, scraping his voice into jagged shards.  And a more recent memory: _“I couldn’t let you just…die, Sammy.  I’m sorry – I’m not sorry.  I_ couldn’t _.”_

 “When we went through the purification process,” he said to Crowley, moving so the table wasn’t between then any more, just empty space.  “You said all-”

“I said a lot of things, you had me drugged.”

“Crowley.” God, he really didn’t want to say the words, but they fell out of his mouth like it would burn him not to say it.  “What did you want?”

The former king of hell glared at him, then his shoulders slumped, and his gaze fell to the floor. “To be forgiven.  To be loved. Same as every damned thing on this planet, or below it, for that matter.  Not so sure about above.”

“As below, so above.” Castiel said.

“The thing is… you can’t wait for someone else to forgive you, or love you.  That’s not how it works.”  He could feel Castiel’s gaze on him again, like a steady weight.  For once, though, that regard didn’t make him feel guilty, or pressured, or somehow lacking.  “Everyone has to get there on their own.”

“ _Tashlich,”_ Castiel's voice was quiet, almost a whisper _. “_ The casting of sins onto the waters.”

“What, I let go of it all, and suddenly my heart’s all free and clear and sunshine and puppies?”

“Yeah, I guess.  Well, not puppies.  Let’s not push it.”

Crowley’s lips twitched in what was probably a laugh.  “Yeah.  Sure, why not. I’m tired, Moose. Endless deals, contracts, holding it all together, making sure the tees are crossed and the Is dotted because nobody else is paying attention to the fine print _and_ the big picture… you keep moving because if you don’t something else is going to eat you, and the only way to be safe is to make everyone else too cautious of you to do anything rash.  I’m not a bloody psychotic like that bitch Abaddon, or our undearly departed friend Azazel, so the only way to get there is to be a meaner, craftier son of a bitch than anyone else.  And you know what?  That’s bloody _exhausting.”_

He looked as surprised as anyone else at the words that had come out of his mouth.

“So no, you can’t trust me, Moose.  We’re never going to be bestest buddies, because you’re a threat to me, you’re standing between me and my goal.  And if I have the chance to trip you up and gain advantage I will, no regrets and no guilt. So if that’s a sin then you’re just going to have to lump it, find yourself another heart to use.

“Bu I don’t hate you.  Not even you, feathers, although it’s a close go.  And grudges?  They get in the way of business.  You never know who you’re going to have to work with tomorrow, hey?”

Kevin looked at Sam, who looked at Castiel, who was staring at Crowley, who stared back at him.

 

 

 #

“Careful with that.”

“Sorry, I don’t have quite the same expertise in drawing fluids.  It is…not as simple as I had thought.”

“Yeah.  Lots of things like that.” Sam winced as the needle found the vein this time, and relaxed his fist.  They both watched the fluid rising through the tube, the room silent around them.  Kevin had gone back to his room, Crowley was still in his cell, and he knew that they were both, involuntarily, straining to hear another set of boots on the floor, the shriek of a chair pulled up to the table, the shout from the kitchen.

 “Heart, blessings, and blood,” Castiel mused. “Of the three, blood has always been the most potent of symbols.”

“Threefold blood, not so much with the purity,” Sam said, using the noise of their voices to push away the silence, and the sounds that didn’t come.

“Nothing about this spell is pure,” Cas pointed out.  “A demon’s heart, tainted blood, and the blessing of a god who abandoned His children?”

Sam managed a bitter chuckle.  “When you put it that way…”

“Blood is a gift.  It binds humanity, gives them ties where otherwise there might only be chaos, cruelty.”

“Blood causes that, too.”

“Sam.”  Cas hesitated, then placed one hand on top of Sam’s, the warmth a comfort in the cool air. “I do not believe that you would give up your bond with Dean, no matter the pain it has caused.”

“If I could, I wouldn’t be me.  But it’s…it’s not the same any more.”

They were talking about more than his genetic makeup now, and they both knew it.

 “It will always be the same, Sam.  That’s what makes it so…frustrating.”

“Hey, Sam?”  Kevin stood in the doorway, interrupting whatever he might have said in response.  “Your phone, it, um, rang a couple of times and there’s a voicemail?”

Not the Men of Letter’s call line: his own, personal phone.  The one he’d had since leaving Stanford.  The one only family – and near-as family – had the number for.

His hands shook as he pressed play, and set the phone to speaker.

“Hey Sammy.”

Kevin disappeared.  Cas leaned forward, then back, as though unsure if he should be listening in, or not, eager, or not.

“I guess you’re busy.  Just as well, I guess.  You’d probably only yell and I’d snark and… yeah, old habits we should’ve gotten out of years ago, right?  I’m just so… tired of going around in circles, Sam. Gotta let you – and Cas, Cas you’re probably listening too, aren’t you? Let you guys have the last word, if you want it.  Although I guess leaving a message isn’t exactly doing that, is it?  Screwing even this up.

“But, Sammy… whatever you decide, I’m proud of you, okay?  They put the whammy on you so early, and you came through anyway, every time.   Remember that, not the other crap.  Okay?”

There was a noise in the background, a low voice, and Dean turned away to respond. 

“Look, I gotta go. Things to do, wayward angels to smite.  You and Cas, you guys be careful, all right?  And make sure Kevin gets something to eat, and actually falls asleep in a bed at least once a week, and…. Yeah.  Bye, Sammy.”

“No.  No you son of a …”  Sam picked up the phone with his untethered hand, and jabbed the redial.  As expected, he got a series of rings before being disconnected.  No voicemail.

Sam knew his brother well enough to recognize a goodbye, even if the ass had never bothered with one before, and something snapped in him because NO.

“We need to find him.  Get me unhooked, I need to find that idiot before he does something even dumber than usual. I’m still pissed, but he doesn’t get to leave if I’m stuck here, too.”

“Another minute,” Cas said, pushing him gently back into the chair.  “And then you need to eat something.”

“Cas, Dean’s-“

“Doing something idiotic, yes, I gathered that.”  His voice sounded dry, but Sam knew better, could read the worry in those eyes, the tension in his body.  “And we will find him. But we need to finish this, first.”

 

 

 #

An hour later, Sam had bolted down a bowl of soup and a handful of baby carrots, and packed his bag.  He came out to the main room to find Cas seated at the long table, a small vial of his blood at one elbow and what looked like  a Steampunk wet dream assembled in front of him.

“Is that a compass?”

“A seafarer’s compass, yes.  I found it in one of the storerooms.”

“And…my blood.” 

“And some of mine, and a chip of bone for the needle.” 

“Whose-“  Whose did he _think_ , Sam asked himself. “Will that will find Dean?”

“…maybe?”  Castiel finished reassembling the last piece, and tilted it slightly, letting the blood cover the edge of the needle.  The bone-needle.  Sam felt a little queasy.  “It is an unpleasant spell, and one I dislike using, but….”  But it wasn’t just a matter of waiting for Dean to get his shit together, any more.  “If I still had my grace…”

“Yeah.”  What the hell did you say to that?  If Castiel were still an angel, none of this would be happening.  “And if Dean weren’t an ass, and if I hadn’t been such a judgmental shit, and we’ll be here all day if we start down that road.  Can you find him?”

In answer, Castiel held the compass evenly above the desk, over the map laid out on the surface, and they watched as the needle quavered, and then stabilized, pointing southeast.

“Good enough to start,” Sam decided.

 

 

 #

“You know what to do, right?”  Sam threw his bag into the backseat of the Impala, and turned to face Kevin.

“Yes, I know what to do. I can’t believe you’re leaving me here.  Again!  With,” Kevin jerked a thumb backwards in the vague direction of the dungeon, “with him!”

“Jody’s en route, she’ll be here by tonight.  You’ve got the blood, and his heart,” they both winced again at the wording, “and we need you to figure out how we’re supposed to get god’s blessing when every god we know of has died or gone AWOL.”

“Great.”  Kevin scowled.  “Good luck.  Haul his dumb ass back here, okay?”

“That’s the plan. Get in the car, Cas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am remembering why I prefer to write things out and polish them before posting. On the other hand, there's much to be said for writing without a net. Mostly, those things are "shitIshoulda," and "oh, fuck me."
> 
> Hopefully, my headdesking is resulting in your entertainment. :-)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief chapter, wherein Dean and Chuck bond (not), and Sam talks tough love with Cas.

 “That’s Harut.  And Zephon.  I don’t recognize that one…”  Chuck shrugged at Dean’s sideways glance.  “I’m not who We once were, Dean.  Be thankful I can see past their vessels at all, much less identify them all.”  He went back to studying the figures currently sitting at a table at the other end of the diner, hs eyes narrowed.  “I’m sure We thought you were all a good idea, at one point.”

Dean’s bottom lip twitched, almost a smile, at Chuck's grumbling.  The words were different but the tone was the same: he’d heard it from his dad more than he wanted to remember, the “what the fuck are you thinking, being a dumbass like that?” tone.

God was still the biggest dick in the known universe, but the part that had become Chuck was at least…understandable. 

“It’s a shonda fur die goyim,” Chuck muttered now.

“A what for the who?”

“An embarrassment, a shame before outsiders.  It’s Yiddish.  Wonderfully useful language, Yiddish.  Pity it’s dying out.”

“Metatron totally imprinted on you, didn’t he?”  

“Don’t most children imprint on their Fathers?”

“Shut up.”  Understandable or not, Chuck was still a dick. “You can see them…can they see you?  I mean, you-as-was?”

“I don’t think so.  If they couldn’t when I was still the prophet, I can’t imagine being stuck in human vessels is going to change that.”

“Let’s hope not.  As useful as it might be to be able to tell them to go to their room, it’s hell of a lot more likely they’re going to have some daddy issues they want to work out.”

Chuck sighed, and moved his coffee mug around like he wished it were filled with whiskey, instead.  Dean knew that move.

 

 #

“We could just rent a car, Sam.”

Sam looked around the long-term parking lot, sussing out the right vehicle.  “Rental cars are too easy to trace, most of them have LoJack or something installed in case the renter decides to take off.  We really don’t need that kind of crap.”

They’d flown into Pensacola, not wanting to waste the time on the road, and not having to cater to Dean’s phobias.  Castiel had found the entire experience of flying to be interesting, although he had a marked impatience for the security procedure, and Sam had thought one of the guards might have been marked for a future smiting.

“That one,” he decided, heading for a dark blue sedan.  Innocuous, old enough to be someone’s second car, large enough to seat three comfortably, and probably got decent mileage.  A quick survey confirmed that they hadn’t bothered to install any alarm systems and it only took him a few seconds to pop the lock and toss their bags inside.

They didn’t have any weapons, but this was Florida: it shouldn’t be too hard to fix.  There was a store that catered specifically to Hunters, but that was closer to Miami…

“Get in,” he told Cas.  The ticket was on the dashboard, and twenty dollars at the pay machine later, they were driving away from the lot, no-one the wiser.

“Head west,” Cas told him, studying the compass.  So they went west.

Cas spent the first half hour fiddling with the radio, unable to pick up anything other than country and talk radio stations.

“Welcome to the conservative backwoods, Cas.  Sorry.”

Cas sighed and leaned back in his seat, only to start fidgeting with the door controls.  “I dislike this.  It takes forever to reach our destination, we don’t even _have_ a destination.  Being back at the Bunker Dean knew where to find us, if he needed us.  Now...”

“He can still call us,” Sam reminded him, slightly amused by the sudden twitchiness.  It was...endearingly human.  “Did you turn your cell phone back on, after we landed?”

The look he got then was pure Angel of the Lord, and despite himself, Sam laughed.  And then, because he was always the smart brother – or at least the one who paid attention – he decided to take advantage of the isolation and the captive audience, and go for it.

“When we find him, Cas…just tell him.”

 “What?”  That wiped the smite-y look off his face, replacing it with shock and, yep, a hint of Dean-level denial-façade.

“Just tell him. Just say the words as matter of fact as you can, no meet-cute or stammering, so he can just accept it as a done deal, and not get all flustered over what he’s _supposed_ to do or think or say.”

“But…”

“Cas.  I know three things.  One: being a Winchester – or a Winchester-by-proxy - sucks.  Two, I’m never not going to be tired ever again, and three, my brother loves you but you’re going to have to say it first. Okay?””

Castiel swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing nervously, then he looked away, out the window at the passing scenery. His “okay” was barely vocalized, but Sam heard it, anyway.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY! We're closing in on getting Team Free Idiots back together again. Not that things will go smoothly then, either.....
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks again for the kudos and comments. Writing without a net makes me twitchy as hell, but it's also fun. In a twitchy-making way.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team Free Idiots. Plus Chuck. And a few pissed-off angels.
> 
> It's funny how everything can change, everything can fall apart, everything can make sense, all at once.

“Well, that could have gone better.”  Dean knew his grin was forced, but it was tough to find actual humor when you were surrounded by a dozen seriously pissed off angels, even if they did look like a pack of boy scouts and office workers.

“I’m not very good at winging it,” Chuck said, and it took Dean a second to recognize the layers of really awful joke in that.  At least, he was hoping it was supposed to be a joke: angels didn’t have much sense of humor, but Chuck – whatever part of him that had been Him, anyway – seemed to have a better grasp of it than his creations.

“You thought you could just waltz in and shut us down?”  The leader was a middle-aged guy with no visible muscle underneath the ‘Gators sweatshirt and faded jeans, but his eyes were angel-hard in a way that Dean was never not going to recognize, now.  “Not that I don’t have a great deal of respect for the amount of destruction you can rain down, Winchester, but even for you, this is…ambitious.  Especially alone.”

“Apparently, I _am_ chopped liver,” Chuck said quietly, and yeah, the guy was cracking wise under pressure.  Dean knew there was a reason he’d kinda liked the prophet, before he knew what was underneath the booze and seriously invasive bad writing.

“You…. Who are you?  Another hunter?”  The angel, seriously, leaned in and _sniffed_ at Chuck, like the guy was a flower or something.  “No.  You’re not human, are you?”

Chuck smiled, but it was crooked, and not amused.  “More human than you are.”

Dean inhaled, then let it out again.  If Chuck didn’t want to go all “I am the Lord thy God" on them – and he didn’t blame the guy, as pissed off as the angels were about daddy going walkabout without a return-by date – he wasn’t going to say anything either.  He tried to catch Chuck’s attention, to tell the guy to follow his lead and not say anything more – angels without a sense of humor were as likely to use pointy bits and blood in response to being mocked – but Chuck was too busy looking at the figures in front of him.

Dean’s breath caught, and he felt something twist in his stomach that had nothing to do with the rope twisted around his arms and legs, or the cut an angel blade had left in his side.  He’d seen that expression before.  Castiel, his face splattered with blood, bruised and exhausted, realizing the cost of being God; the shame and guilt and … _love_ that had all flooded to the surface in that terrible moment.

He’d never meant any of this to happen.  It didn’t make it better, didn’t turn the world into unicorn poop and candy canes, but Chuck – _God_ – hadn’t wanted any of this, had hoped that things would work out for the best, not get dragged down by the crap even angels couldn’t seem to avoid.

Somehow, instead of pissing Dean off, or confirming his worst opinions about pretty much everything, it made him laugh.

“All right, share the joke with the rest of the class?” the lead angel said, turning to face Dean, a half-smile on his own face, the smile of a guy who knows he’s not only in control of the game, but about to clear the table.

“Nobody has a clue, do they?  Predestination, Free Will… it’s all the same thing. There’s always a choice, and we’re pretty much designed to make the worst one, just to keep the game going.”

“It’s not that bad,” Chuck said, and it was as though they were alone in the room, just the two of them.  “There are good choices made, too.  And bad choices for the right reason.  Intent matters, Dean.  _Love_ matters.”

“Enough sermonizing,” one of the angels growled.  “They’re not going to give consent, so what do we do with them?”

They’re going to die, and now Dean really wished he’d had the guts to actually talk to Sam, instead of just leaving a message.  But he’s pretty sure it will be okay – dying literally at god’s side has got to be worth something, right?  And Sam and Cas will be okay, already _are_ okay, and they’re safe, and so is Kevin, and that’s all he has left to worry about.  So let the dick angels do their worst. He’s pretty sure killing even a decommissioned god will leave a blast radius the size of the warehouse they’re currently holed up in. 

“Bring it, feathers.  Oh no, wait, you don’t have feathers any more, do you?”

The last thing he saw before the punch landed was Chuck, rolling his eyes, and Dean managed a grin at the other man before he blacked out.

 

 Chuck had expected to die – again – the moment Dean Winchester showed up at Smokey Joe’s.  It was just sort of…inevitable.  And if he were to die at the now-mortal hands of his children, well… that seemed to be the fate of many gods, didn’t it?  A wise Creator wouldn’t actually _create._

But he couldn’t be angry.  There was enough anger, enough pain already to go around, and the weight of it rested against his bones.

“You want back into Heaven,” he said now, as much to distract them from Dean’s crumpled body as because he needed an answer.  “Do you think that this is the way to open the doors?”

“What would you know about it?” 

“Too much, actually,” Chuck said, and watched as every head in the room – except Dean’s – swiveled like an owl’s to look at him.  Maybe that was too much distraction, he thought, swallowing down sudden nerves.  But if there was one thing he still knew how to do, it was improvise.

At least long enough for the cavalry to arrive.

 

“That’s the car,” Cas said quietly, pointing to the vehicle parked outside the old warehouse.  They were in an old, abandoned complex that had once been home to several welding and repair companies, and was now empty save for a few cars and pickup trucks, and one building that still had lights on.

They’d managed to track Dean to this town, and then by stint of hitting every single motel in the area, gotten a description of his car.  The fact that he was working with another hunter – at least, that was what they assumed form the description of his companion – should have made them feel better, that Dean wasn’t haring off on his own.  From the frown that had taken up residence on Sam’s face since they heard the news, though, Cas wasn’t sure ‘better’ was the right word.  His own feelings were complicated, bundled in with relief that they had found him, and irritation that the man wasn’t picking up his phone now that they had. 

They were about to get out of their car, when the door to the warehouse flung open and two figures came out.  Male, middle-aged, not visible armed.  Castiel found himself cataloging the risks and how he could take each of them out, even as he was sinking down in the seat so as not to be seen.  Next to him, Sam was doing the same with less luck.

The two men did a quick sortie, and then went back inside.

“Angels?”

Cas noded. “It seems likely.”

“You think Dean’s in there?”

“That also seems likely.”

“In trouble?”

Cas had to laugh.  “I’m sorry, have you met your brother?”

“Good point.”

“Do you-“ and Cas stopped mid-sentence, something flickering across his face like a wave wiping the sand clean.

“Cas?”

He lifted his fingers just enough to calm Sam own, straining to hear whatever it was that had pinged at the edge of his awareness.  “There’s….”

“What?”

“I heard something.  Familiar.”

It couldn’t be.  It would be a cruel joke, that wisp against his thoughts,  but he reached for it again anyway, yearning, aware that human flesh and human brain couldn’t be expected to chase after Grace.  And yet….

It was gone, whatever it had been.  If he hadn’t simply imagined it.  Castiel didn’t pretend he was fully functional: there was still too much about being human he didn’t understand, too many senses he used to rely on, now gone.  Under stress, humans could… be deluded.

“We need to get inside,” Sam was saying.  “Find out how many are inside, and make a plan-“

“Where’s the fun in that?” Castiel said with an intentionally feckless grin, opening the car door and sliding out, checking as he did so that the blade strapped to his thigh was secure, and the gun in his hand fully loaded.

“You spent too much damn time with my brother,” Sam groused, but followed him, half-crouching, to the side of the warehouse.  There was a side door, rusted but not locked, and they moved inside quietly, sticking to the shadows thrown by the machinery that had been shoved to the side and forgotten.  Cas as a human was almost as stealthy as he’d been with wings, Sam decided, watching him move closer to the voices they could hear, deeper inside the warehouse. 

There were men gathered in a group further in, where the floor had been cleared of junk.  “He dead?”

“Nah, just out.”

Sam couldn’t see who they were talking about, but the figure still tied up didn’t look like his brother from the back – way too short, and the hair was too long.

“Leave him alone.”

Sam almost stood upright in shock at the voice coming from the other prisoner.  He was good with voices, never forgot the sound of someone he knew, and this one in particular had a reason for sticking in his brain.

“Chuck?”

Cas half-turned, the expression on his face one of confused shock, and Sam gestured sharply with two fingers, indicating the men in front of them.  "Chuck,” he mouthed, and watched as Cas’s expression went form confusion to comprehension and then back to confusion.

Yeah, Sam could relate.

“You’re not in a position to give any orders, human.  Or whatever you are.”

“You don’t recognize me." Chuck, it was definitely Chuck, what the hell?  "I suppose I asked for that.”

 

He could feel them.  Or rather, he could feel Castiel.  Mortal, so small and mortal, but the threads of Grace he hadn’t been able to eradicate from his own flesh ran through the former angel’s as well.  He’d been amused by the angel when they’d first met: so earnest and fierce, but not without his own streak of mischief and rebellion.  And heart, so much heart.

He hadn’t done such a bad job, really, with his children.  If they could survive long enough, it might all come out right.

But Dean was out cold, and two mortals, even these hunters, were no match against this many Fallen.

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “I always was crap at outlines, and every time I think I’ve figured out the ending, there’s another thread that has to be woven back in. Life's messy that way, squirming and evolving. We meant that to be a feature, not a bug, you know.”

He hadn’t been entirely straight with Dean – there’s more of him left than he admitted. The ropes binding his arms and legs fell away, and he stood up, stepping into the lead angel’s space.

“What the-“  The man pulls back, then raises his arm, the angel blade glinting in the dim light.

“I’m sorry.”

The blade sliced down, catching him in the chest, and he had just enough time to raise a hand to Dean, brushing his fingertip over the man’s chest before the pain reached his awareness, and he let go of the shell he’d shaped himself into, letting the threads of Grace reshape him one last time.

 

Sam saw the blade rise and fall, the second figure crumple to the ground, and there was a flutter of wings, and for a moment he thinks it’s Castiel before remembering that Cas is human now and then he sees the pigeon flapping its way into the air, trying to get away before the light exploded – what light? he thinks dimly – and seared into his retinas, forcing his eyes closed and his body onto its knees.

“Sam!”

Cas, yelling.  Gravely voice, familiar.  Scared?  Worried.  Angry.  He can feel a hand on his arm, hauling him up, and his eyes are open but all he can see is afterimage, white-on-black and a scattering of red…blood? like drops across his field of vision.

The angels are gone.  Everything is gone, not even bodies left, except Dean, crumpled on the floor, his face pale but his eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling and Cas is on his knees next to him, scraping the ropes off his arms and legs, but all Sam can see is the blood scattered across Dean’s chest and half of his face, a dappling of red spray like…

Like the scatter of a bird’s wing, and his memory shows him the pigeon rising up through the light, and his brain randomly dredges up a flood of facts: pigeons are clade _Columbidae_ , and also known as rock doves.  Doves are one of the most commonly-used symbols in religious mythology, from Gilgamesh and Ishtar to the New Testament.  Love, peace, forgiveness.  The Holy Spirit.

“Sam!”

Everything else was forgotten as he helped Cas pull Dean upright, and carry him out of the warehouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Chuck. I may have many Chuck Feels, as well as headcanon.
> 
> And you may have noticed that I don't buy into the Cas-as-innocent-mortal 'type. EndVerse Cas came from the original model, after all.
> 
>  
> 
> Two more installments? Maybe three. Or four. I don't even know any more. Who told this story it could go over 20k?


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Issues are aired. Words are said. The world gets to wait for a moment.
> 
> (This chapter is otherwise known as my Year's Turn Present to my Readers. Plot will resume in the New Year.)

His entire life, sometimes, it seemed like he was trying to bite down anger that would only make a situation worse.  Right now, Sam wasn’t sure if he wanted to wrap his brother in a quilt and never let him out of sight ever again, or throw the stupid fucker through a fourth story window.

 “What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

Dean was lying.  He was sitting on the edge of the bed back in his motel room, his skin still stippled with red where the blood – it was blood, Sam was certain it was blood, but whose? – resisted washing off, and he was _lying_. Again. 

He counted to five, and let his gaze rest on his brother, as though the truth was there, somewhere.  They’d pulled the shirt off him, and found the stain had gone right through, stippling the skin there as well, and that was another question they didn’t have an answer for.

“I don’t know, okay?  They got the jump on us, and I got knocked on the head and that’s the last thing I knew.  Maybe some of their mojo backfired on ‘em or something.”

Cas, who had been pacing back and forth while Sam tried to clean his brother up and check for injuries, picked that moment to start the interrogation.  “What was the prophet doing there with you?”

“And how is Chuck even alive?” Sam asked, willing to be distracted for a moment.  “Cas, I thought you said he had to have died in order for Kevin to be called?”

“That was my understanding,” Cas agreed.  “Dean, did he explain this to you?”

Dean chuckled, and there wasn’t any humor in it at all.  “God works in mysterious ways?”

And yeah, that was definitely Castiel’s smite-the-annoying face, completely mitigated by the fact that he was still pacing back and forth, almost shaking with emotion.  Between that and his own irritation, and Dean’s oh-so-familiar retreat behind snarky humor, Sam decided that a tactical retreat would be the best move for him, right now.

“I’m going to grab some food, and see if there’s any gossip about missing people or,” and he flapped a hand in the air, “you know, anything.  Cas, keep an eye on Dean because I’m pretty sure even his hard head took a concussion, if he can’t remember shit.”

“Hey!”

“I will do so.”

And yeah, _definitely_ time to get the hell out of there.

 

# 

The door closed behind Sam, and Dean looked back down at his hands, then glared at Castiel, who had paused in his pacing long enough to glare back, his earlier forced humor gone now.  “Damn it, Cas.  What were you thinking, charging into a warehouse full of pisssed-off angels?  What are you even doing down here?”

“What did you expect us to do?  No, wait, I know, we were supposed to let you wallow in your guilt and say good riddance?”  Castiel, to use Sam’s term, had lost it, and he doesn’t know where to find it, whatever it is.  All he knew was that rage and worry and _fear_ have gotten wound up in a tight knot in his chest and yelling was the only way to deal with it.  “We were supposed to accept that there was nothing worth saving in you, that we were better off without you?”

“Aren’t you?”  In contrast, Dean’s voice is almost too quiet to be heard.  “Can you honestly say things haven’t been better, with me gone?”

Cas felt the blow like an actual hit to the chest, fully expecting it to leave a bruise. “Dean…”

“No more screwing it up, making decisions for people because of what I needed.  Team Free Will, actually _having_ free will.  You doing your thing and me… doing mine.”  He turned his face away, swallowing hard.  “Better that way.”

“Maybe,” Cas allowed, the rage still driving him.  “If you think you’re better off alone, I’m not going to argue with you.  Certainly, we have been… _muddling along_ without you.”

“Damn it, Cas.”  Dean stopped, as though he were biting the words off before they escaped, and stood up, wincing as the bandage pulled on his ribs, the cut not serious but still painful underneath.  He clearly wanted to move, to leave, or hit something – some physical manifestation of whatever it was he couldn’t say.

Castiel’s anger and frustration hit a cold wall.  They knew the steps in this dance, knew that the other knew the steps as well, and yet they couldn’t seem to stop moving.  Maybe, if he still had his Grace, could still see Dean’s soul, heal the wounds festering… but all he had were human hands and human graces now, and they were not enough.  Not if Dean himself didn’t want to heal.

“I don’t want to hurt you guys any more.  I _can’t_.”

“And you think going away, leaving us, doesn’t hurt?  You think Sam _likes_ not knowing where you are, if you need him at your back?  You think…”

“It’s not about thinking, Cas.  Some things you just can’t _think_ about, okay?”

“I love you.”

“What?”  Dean’s entire body stilled.

“I love you.”  He hadn’t mean to say it, hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that, but the words came, nonetheless.  He waited, caught in the split second between words and reaction.  Now was when Dean would, as Sam would say, ‘freak out” go into denial, or simply leave him, slam out the door and drive away.

Castiel was aware, dimly, that _he_ was freaking out, his thoughts so jumbled and tangled and frantic, like birds beating against the inside of his skull, that time might actually have stopped, for all that he could process it.

And then there were hands at the side of his face, warm, familiar hands, holding him, keeping the thoughts inside, calming the fluttering wings until he could thing, see, _breathe_ again.

“Dean,” he managed to say, and then there were lips pressing against his, warm and soft, brushing against his before they moved to his forehead, pressing more firmly there, fingers threading through his hair, holding him steady, and for the first time in what felt like years Cas sensed his body relax, the muscles he’d been holding rigid without realizing it easing again.

“I needed you to be safe,” Dean was saying, his voice low, wracked, against Castiel’s ear. “You’ve been through so much, I just wanted for once for you to be _safe_ , and not have me drag you back into the shit…”

“Urge me not to leave thee - to turn back from after thee; for whither thou goest I go, and where thou lodgest I lodge; thy people is my people…”

“And thy god my god?”  There was something in Dean’s voice as he finished the quote, something dark and sad but not…not angry, the way Dean usually sounded when he talked about Castiel’s absent Father.  But he didn’t have time to puzzle it out, because Dean’s lips were back on his, breath warm and slightly sour, and the gentle wet touch of his tongue stroking against Castiel’s skin made him shudder and press forward, seeing more.  More touch, more reassurance.  They were alive, and together, and…

He pulled away, eyes wide.  “Why are you not freaking out?”

 

Dean could still taste Cas on his lips, salty and a little sweet, like dark chocolate, and he wanted to go in for another taste, but the question stopped him cold.  Cas’ hair was rumpled, so much like the way it had been the first time he’d seen the angel, only this time it was his hand that had rumpled him, his touch that had put that shocked, awed expression on the former angel’s face.

“Should I be?”

“I… you…”  Castiel stuttered to a halt. “My vessel is…I’m _male._ ”

“Cas."  He could feel the smile tugging at his lips, more bemused than amused.  "You know me.  You put me back together, could hear my prayers, poked around in my _dreams_.  You telling me you don’t know all my deep dark secrets?” The fact that he could talk about it –  _joke_  about it – was a fucking Christmas miracle a month late, but Dean didn’t stop to wonder why.  “You never poked around into where I’d been, what I’d thought…. What I’d wanted to do?”

“Such…such subconscious thoughts are not uncommon,” Cas said, and Dean decided that his stutter was fucking adorable, so sue him for being a girl about it.  “Heterosexuals often…but that does not mean they wish to act on it.”

“Yeah well, for humans it’s kind of a sliding scale, and just ‘cause I stick to women doesn’t mean I haven’t…slid.  Occasionally.”  He took a step closer, and Cas’s eyes got even wider, if possible.  “You thought I’d freak because you’ve got guy parts?”

“I… yes.”

“Parts are parts,” he said, sliding a hand carefully, cautiously, up Castiel’s arm.  “They’re pretty basic about what feels good, what fits where, what can make you moan and come like a fire hose,” and yeah he’s putting on all the moves, every trick he ever learned, dropping his voice and using pressure in the pad of his thumb, but it’s working, he can see Cas’s pupils dilating, feel him leaning in rather than backing away.

“But you…” 

Dean waited, let Cas figure it out.  See the part of him that that believed in Cassie and true love beating every problem, that shattered a little when Jess died and Sammy mourned, that watched his father die every day without Mary, and couldn’t trust anyone again with that much power over him.

That loved Benny, and sacrificed him anyway. 

That fucked up everything he ever loved, with bad choices for the right reasons.

This time, it was Cas who reached out, fingertips tracing the line of his jaw, up along his temples, then slipped down to his chest where the stains were still bloody across his skin.  They swallowed, forcing everything they might have said back into the stillness of their chests, digesting the events, the words, until they were full, _replete_.

“Hey guys- oh.”  Sam stood in the doorway, a plastic Subway bag in one hand, his expression caught somewhere between shock, horror, and glee. The space of a heartbeat pulsed, and then the younger Winchester went on, “Kevin called. Get this, there’s a poltergeist up in South Carolina, he figured we could stop by on the way home and deal with it.”

“Oh goody,” Dean said, letting his hand come up to cover Cas’s where it rested on his chest, not letting him pull away.  “Poltergiests.  Because who doesn’t need to get knocked around a house a few times for kicks?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, I went a different route than a lot of stories, having Dean being reasonably self-aware of himself and his heart, if not his intentions. For someone as emotionally intense yet risk-averse as Dean Winchester, making the first move when it matters would be near-impossible - but once that move has been made, it's flood-the-river time. 
> 
> Hopefully, it worked for y'all, too.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fight scene. Confessions. Angst. It must be a Winchester Road Trip!

Dean felt something cold hit the back of his jacket, and turned, trying to block it, without dropping the shotgun.  The coldness intensified into claws, cutting through the leather and the shirt underneath, until he could almost feel the burn of scoring on his back.  The rifle fell from suddenly nerveless hands.

“Damn it, Cas!”

“Stand _still!”_   Castiel swung the iron bar, swiping it through the ghost and missing Dean by an inch – if he’d kept moving, the bar would have slammed into the side of his head.  Dean dropped to his knees and picked up the rifle, turning in the direction he could feel the air move and pausing just long enough to make sure it wasn’t Sam coming to join them before he opened fire.

The ghost snarled, and Dean and Cas both slammed against the far wall, hard enough that Dean was pretty sure he could feel the imprint of the 1970’s-era  paneling forming in his flesh, despite two layers of flannel.  He was able to send off another round of rock salt, making the poltergeist waver and disappear, before they heard Sam’s triumphant shout, and the unmistakable whoosh of accelerant and flame.

“Gotta admit,” Dean said, gasping for breath as he slid down the wall to sit on the floor, rifle cradled in his arm, “if someone hacked me up and hid me in the walls, I’d be pretty pissed, too.”

“Shut up, Dean,” Cas said, sliding down the wall to sit next to him.  “Ow.”

“Gotcha good, did she?”

“There is no shame in getting beaten up by a supernatural entity fueled by rage,” Cas said, as prissy as ever he’d been as an angel.  Then he ruined the moment by wincing again, and lifting his elbow to examine where the sleeve had been ripped. 

“You’re bleeding,” Dean noted.  “C’mon, up.  Kit’s in the car.”

 

 

 #

The poltergeist had focused all three of them: getting there, researching the history, locating the body, and the ever-popular salt and burn.  But now, packed back into the Impala, the familiar positions seemed a reproach.  Dean could feel the thoughts, the regrets, pounding in his head to match the drumming of his fingers on the wheel.  _This is why you left.  You’re just going to screw it up again.  You’re keeping secrets, deciding what they need to know, what they_ don’t _need to know._

He could feel the stain on his chest, even though the dots were finally starting to fade.  He told himself that if Chuck had wanted his secret known, he would have hung around, not gone all kamikaze with serious overkill to take out a dozen grounded angels.  That Chuck had taken himself off the board and how would that help Cas to know, to know that God – or part of him, anyway – had been around all this time, and _known_ what was happening, and not done anything?

He could remember that time, when his dad had been just out of reach: alive but unresponsive, one step ahead of them like a taunt, the constant sigh of disappointment and disapproval of every move they made that wasn’t exactly what the older man had wanted.

Dean didn’t have daddy issues.  He had a freaking _subscription_.  And even knowing that his old man had loved them, had been afraid for them, had tried to do the right thing…. It didn’t make it hurt any less, didn’t make him doubt himself any less.  For Cas, thrown out of Heaven, defrocked of his Grace, to know for certain that his father had done that to him, had _allowed_ it to happen?

How the fuck could that help?

So, instead of lingering on those thoughts, he drilled them for details on the spell they’d found, the one that could – should- reverse Metatron’s bullshit.

The entire story spilled from Sam’s lips, as though he was just as thankful as Dean to have something _else_ to talk about.  Dean listened as he drove, shaking his head but not saying anything until Sam was finished.

“And you trust Crowley?”

Cas, in the back seat, shrugged, but there was a faint smile on his lips.  “We are not who we were, any of us,” he said.  “Why not give him the same courtesy?”

The formality of the words was blended with an odd sort of who-the-fuck-cares casualness, and Dean had another uncomfortable flash of 2014-Cas – the other 2014, not this reality, the one who…

It was 2014.  That world didn’t exist.  This one might be more screwed up, in some ways, but Sam was alive and angel-free, and Cas was human but sober, and…and whatever was between them, they hadn’t fucked it up.  Not yet, anyway.

And Chuck wasn’t hoarding toilet paper.  Had that Chuck been god, too?  Did tat make hoarding toilet paper some kind of 11th commandment?

“Yeah, okay.”  He didn’t want to fight, not with either of them, and as much of a shit as Crowley had been, he took his contracts seriously.  It was just…

He had left them to make their own decisions.  This was the decision they’d come to.  No matter what he thought or felt, he had to accept it.  The thought tasted like ashes in his mouth.

“And we’re quite certain that Sam’s blood is exactly what the spell called for,” Cas added, and their gazes caught in the rear view mirror.

Dean was seriously tired of his little brother being the freshly ground pepper of every supernatural recipe. “So you’re saying that Sam’s being claim-jumped by Gadreel was, what, predestination?  I thought we’d gotten off that shit, already.”

“No.”   Sam had been quiet since he finished telling Dean what they’d been up to, but he jumped in there.  “I – we think that the spell evolved.  I mean, that if something else had happened, it would have called for something else, maybe.  Maybe?”

“Great.  Because the only thing worse than a spell that’s impossible to find the ingredients for is one that’s slippery about what those ingredients are.  And no way of knowing if it’ll work.”  He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, and eased his foot off the gas, bringing the Impala back down to a reasonable approximation of the speed limit.   “I hate spells, but usually they’ve at least got some kind of success rate behind them.”

“Well, it is not as though Heaven has been closed before, either,” Cas said, reasonably. “The fact that a spell exists at all…  perhaps God foresaw this.”

“Yeah, trust me, he didn’t.”  The words slipped out before he could stop them, and he was aware that they were both looking at him now with That Look, the one that said they weren’t going to stop digging and prodding until they got an answer.  A _real_ answer.

“Fuck.”

He’d kept his mouth shut about what had gone down in Florida.  They’d – more or less – accepted his claim that the explosion had been some weird grounded-angel thing, mainly because there wasn’t any other explanation possible.  But there were too many holes, he knew that, and it seemed like everything kept coming back to Chuck. 

“Dean?”  Sam had that voice.  There were eyes that went with that voice, but he didn’t look over to check if they were being employed, too.

He pulled the Impala off at the next rest area, and cut the engine, then got out of the car without saying a word.  He heard two doors open and close behind him, but he didn’t look back.  There were a handful of picnic tables on the other side of the parking lot, only one of them in use by a family with two small kids who were keeping their hands too full to even consider eavesdropping.

He sat down at the farthest table, and waited for Sam and Cas to join him.

“Dean?” 

He looked up, then.  Sam, his hair still falling in his face, and that was good, it helped wipe away the still too-clear imagine of Sam-as-Lucifer, and Gadreel-in-Sam.  His eyes were still a hundred percent human: a little worried, a little hurt, starting to edge on pissed-off.  That was a look Dean knew like his own bones.

And Cas… Dean couldn’t look at him.  Couldn’t see what waited there, because to look would be to imagine what that expression would change to, once he’d heard what he had to say.

He should have pushed them away, should have stayed away.  All he ever did was hurt them.

“Whatever it is, you can tell us.  You _need_ to tell us,” Cas said.  “Especially if it’s making you this uneasy.”

Uneasy?  Terrified.  And it was more than the thought of telling Cas the truth about his deadbeat dad.  Dean wasn’t dumb, even when he’s being an idiot and he’s read almost as much lore as Sam. The blessing of God? And he just _happens_ to hey, what do you know, run into freaking _god_ at the same time they’re learning all this? 

It might be coincidence, sure.  _Might._ A dove – and yeah he freaking saw it – splatting its blood all over him? A dove that appeared just when the guy who used to be god bit the big one, _again?_

Coincidence was one thing.  You mix coincidence with symbolism?  Everyone’s fucked.

This spell was going to require a sacrifice, and sacrifices never end well for Winchesters.  And now, when Sam’s almost forgiven him, when Cas is holding his hand across the table, fingers twined in a very manly fashion, when he’s being dragged back home in as clear a show of love as he could have ever asked for (and, let’s be honest, he never would have)?  He didn’t want to sacrifice anything.

But like every other day of his life, he didn’t get a say in the matter. 

“When God disappeared, Cas…didn’t anyone have a theory?”

“Many.”  If Castiel was surprised at his question, he didn’t show it.  “Some said it was a test.  Others, that we had displeased Him, caused Him to abandon us.  That faction gained the upper hand and, well, you saw the results of that.”

“Yeah.  The thing is… it kinda was a test.”

Castiel went very still, while Sam practically vibrated with geek-curiosity, and Dean knew the only thing holding him back from a thousand questions was the knowledge that is was Cas’s place to ask, not his.

“Of the angels?”

“Of…all of us, I think, but yeah, of the angels.  God… didn’t take a powder, exactly.  Just stepped back.  Let go of the reins.  Took a vacation somewhere the kids couldn’t find him….”

This was the hardest part.  Dean wet his lips, and dumped it out on the table.  “But he didn’t go real far.  Not all of him, anyway.”

“He was here.  On earth.” 

Dean risked looking at Castiel then, but it was like looking at slate: nothing showed on that face, his eyes shuttered and his mouth a thin line.

“Yeah.”

“How do you know this?”  Castiel.

“He took a vessel?  He can do that?” Sam, at the same time.

“He kinda…was human.  Like you are,” he said to Castiel.  “Only with enough juice to…”  In halfway, might as well drown, Dean told himself.  “Well, to take out a dozen rogue angels, apparently.”

“Wait, wait – Chuck?”  Sam almost fell off the bench, and Dean would have laughed if he hadn’t been more focused on Cas’s reaction.

“The prophet?”  Castiel sounded more outraged than he’d been a prophet than anything else Dean had told him.  Then it sank in, and his eyes went wide.  “I was in the presence of God, and did not realize it?”  Pissed off, and awed, and a little something else Dean couldn’t identify, wasn’t sure he wanted to identify.

“You protected him,” Dean said.  “Died to save him.  I think…that’s why you got to buy back in, after Stull?  Maybe, I don’t know.  I didn’t get the full story, hell I barely got any of the story.”

“Wait, wait,” Sam broke in, firmly back on the bench, his eyes almost as wide as Castiel’s.  “Chuck?  Chuck was…. God?”

“A god, Sammy.  I think he’d given up on the monotheism.”  The rest of that conversation could wait, maybe forever.

“Chuck… but he was a prophet.”

“Yeah…apparently that took him kind of by surprise, too, which makes my head hurt if I think about it.”

Looking at Castiel hurt too much, so he looked back over at Sam.  But that was a mistake, too.  “What?”

“Chuck… he was the one who killed the angels.  Smote them.  To save you.”

“To save all our asses, yeah, I guess.”  Dean reached up to rub his chest, where the stains were only slowly fading.  “Just enough juice left for that.”  Don’t let them connect the dots yet, he whispered to whatever might still be listening.  Keep it theory, distanced… but Sammy’s brain was churning, the way it always did, he could tell.

Then Cas swore in Enochian and shoved away from the table, pulling away from Dean and stalking off toward the line of scrub trees lining the road.  Dean’s hand suddenly felt colder than it should.

“Um…”  Sam looked at Cas’s back, then looked at Dean.

“Let him walk it off,” Dean said, almost glad for the interruption.  “He’s pissed.  Remember how you were when Dad went AWOL?”

“Yeah. You ever seriously wonder about the parallels?  I mean, between us and dad, and…”

“I try really hard not to, Sammy.”

 

 

 #

His memory was not the perfect machine it had been, when he was connected to the Host.  It was enough, though, to remember.  The bathrobe, loosely tied. The weary look in his eyes, the brief flickers of amusement, awe, concern. The way the prophet had placed his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, the _human_ warmth of it…. The way he had looked at Castiel as he made a fool of himself, trying to show proper respect due a prophet when he should have been on his knees, face to the floor…

No.

Castiel felt his body tense, and he forced it to relax, one muscle at a time, the way Sam had shown him.  He evened out his breathing, in through his nose, out through his mouth, and let his eyes actually focus on the trees in front of him.

God had not abandoned them, only stepped away.  It had been a test.  Had he passed?  Failed?  Had the test ever ended?

_“I think that’s why you got to buy back in, after Stull.”_

He was as his Father made him, crack in the chassis or no.  Whatever choices he made, he made from that core of him.  And yet, what was it that Sam had said once, the human debate between nature and nurture?  An angel was entirely nature, created complete, and yet… He had never questioned, before being sent to retrieve the Righteous Man from Hell.  Had always been certain…and everything since then had been falling away from that certainty, working on assumption and…and faith, instead. Faith not so much in God, but in those around in.  In himself, sometimes mistaken, sometimes not.  You stumbled, you fell – some harder than others – and…you let others help you back up?

“Free will.  But is that the test, or is the prize?”  He frowned at the trees as though they were withholding from him. “Is the test not what we do, but _if_ we do?”

His thoughts made his head ache, and his chest felt tight, but it wasn’t the same panic or anger than had sent him from the table.  An answer seemed right there, and yet impossible for him to grasp. He didn’t understand it at all. 

But he did understand two things.  One, he made his own decisions now, chose his own actions, for good or ill.  And two, he wasn’t alone.

“Cas!”  Dean, his voice exasperated but not, the affection a shining thing underneath.  “C’mon, man, shake a leg.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...it is very difficult to get these characters to actually TALK to each other. But they're getting there...
> 
> (and Sam's on the case now.)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a return to the Bunker. Some discomfort, and then some comfort, but nothing is resolved...yet.

They made it back to the bunker just before midnight, stumbling out of the car body-sore and exhausted.

Kevin was in the library, a pile of books on the table in front of him.  He stood, and stared at Dean long enough for the older man to shift nervously, uncertain of his reception.

“You’re an ass.”

It was said as a pronouncement, and Dean couldn’t really find in it himself to argue the point.  Behind him, Cas and Sam shuffled their feet, but didn’t say anything in his defense either.  Awesome.

“You’re not going to pull that shit again, are you?”

“No.”

“All right then.”  And Kevin turned and walked out of the library, disappearing back into whatever room he’d denned up in.

Dean exhaled, slowly. “That kid is getting more and more like his mother every day.  And that’s kinda terrifying.”

“Yeah, I know.”  Sam paused, and Dean braced himself, thinking this was when it would hit, back in the Bunker, when Sam suddenly realized he couldn’t do this, couldn’t deal with Dean in constant proximity.  That Kevin’s words had reminded him of all the bad…

He swallowed, waiting, telling himself he’d accept whatever Sam said, no matter what.  That had to be his new mantra.

“Look, it’s late.  Get some sleep.  All this,” and Sam waved a hand, meaning Abaddon, the angels, Chuck, _them_ \- “it’s waited, it’ll wait another day.”

“Yeah.  Yeah, okay.” 

# 

His room was the way he’d left it, at first glance.  But Dean was trained to recognize small details, and he saw the ragged edges of the blanket he’d drawn straight, the slight disorder of the items on his desk, the chair places a few inches closer to the bed than it had been.

“Cas.”

“It was difficult to sleep, after you left,” Cas said from the doorway, his voice soft, barely audible.  “I would sit here, and…”

“You slept in my bed, Cas?”  His voice was rough, his throat scratchy in a way that couldn’t be blamed on lack of sleep or a cold.

“Once. Or twice.”

What the hell did you say to that?  Dean went for levity. “Awesome mattress, isn’t it?”

No.  They were filling space, filing the air with half-sentences and unspoken conversations.  He could do that with Sam, with Kevin, wait for them to make the moves.  But not Cas. 

He turned, and Cas was closer than he’d expected, close enough to see the way his eyes dipped down at the corners, the slight discoloration of his skin from exhaustion, the way his upper lip lifted when he was really intent on something…

And just then, he was really intent on Dean.

He’d wanted this, and it was too much. He wasn’t freaked out about the whole bisexual thing – he’d been honest with Cas when he’d said parts were parts.  But here, back in the Bunker, it was all …real. And the idea of screwing this up suddenly seemed far too likely, back here, under the weight of all the other things he’d fucked up.

They could say whatever they wanted, forgive – they loved him, they wanted to see better things.  But he was broken, fault lines formed when he was a child, shaken by seismic movements as an adult, deepened by his own freeze and thaw, the natural cycles of his life. He had thought, had _felt_ , that the last rumble through his life had been the final one, the cracks sheering off, crashing at the bottom into rubble and dust.

There was no reason he was still intact.  No reason except the hands touching him, pressing his bones back together.

“Dean.”

He couldn’t bear it, couldn’t hear it. Not now.

“Dean.” There were words he didn’t understand, some language that _sounded_ old, human, but old, liquid heat against his skin.

“You’re not poison,” Castiel murmured.  “And even if you were…” Those hands pressed more firmly, individual fingers leaving trails of fire along his skin, the intensity too much to bear, almost too light to feel. “I will draw it out of you.  I will bleed it from your veins, suck it from your lungs, give your soul the room it deserves.”

“Cas-“ He needed to protest, needed to push those hands away, fall further into his breaks and dust, not feel the words dripping into him, sealing the cracks like molten gold in the charred marrow. Then the fingers lifted his jaw, pressed against his cheekbones, and the soft touch of lips against his own drew his breath from his lungs and breathed back the tang of salt and ozone, the hint of dried mint, and a faint echo of wings.

“Cas.” A name.  A plea.  A statement, and he wasn’t sure of what, but his hands lifted, touched, pressed back, feeling the warm skin give way slightly, then flesh underneath firm against the pads of his fingers, the weight of his palms, sliding under the half-buttoned shirt until he found the pulse at the neck, the beat under his sternum.

“I love you. I am often furious with you, I often desire to shake some sense into your thick skull, I would wish that you could **not** rush so blindly toward folly, certain that you must bear the full weight of whatever is to come, but through that all, always, I love you, Dean Winchester.  And I may have made many mistakes in my existence, but never have I been so certain of anything the moment I first placed my hand on your soul.”

And that hand rested on his arm, fingers tightening as though he could cause the mark to reappear through sheer will.            

“This one night,” Cas said, his mouth close to Dean’s ear, his voice sandpaper-rough and his breath hot.  “Let it go.  Simply _be_.”

When he’d thought of him and Cas together, and he’d thought it, in quiet small spaces of his thoughts, he’d never been able to imagine _how_ they’d get to bed.  Somehow it always started there, magically.

Instead, they shuffled across the room, awkward as fuck, wrapped in each other, finding the bedframe with the back of Dean’s knees, sinking into the mattress.

He blinked, but Castiel didn’t disappear, the fingers holding him together didn’t turn into mist, leaving him to shatter and break.  He stayed, blue eyes intent, mouth brushing against Dean’s softly, whispering reassurances in that same, liquid language that Dean finally recognized as some ancient form of Hebrew, and a part of his brain wondered what it would translate to.  Was Cas consoling him, the way a father would a child, or was it more along the lines of Solomon’s more risqué poetry?

And then Cas smiled, like he knew what Dean was thinking, and his kiss was firmer, warmer, a flick of tongue, not invasive but a welcome lick, a coaxing taste, and Dean sighed into it, the tension leaving his bones finally, his muscles melting the way they never did anywhere else save here, when he knew Cas was nearby.

He shifted so that they were pressed more closely together, letting Cas feel his erection, close enough to feel a similar, familiar weight in return.  His hand slid, reaching, only to be caught gently, and held still.

“Sleep, Dean.  Sleep, for now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm sorry, it's taking me forever to get to the end... the story's up here *taps brain* but getting it onto the page in the hours I can scrape from the deadlines hasn't been so easy. And every episode Show airs just makes me want to give the boys a happier ending than what they're going to get there...
> 
> (I have Opinions about the current story arc - check me at http://suricattus.tumblr.com/ for the fannish ramblings)


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